


Couldn't Wash the Echoes Out

by knune



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Aviophobia, Flunking out, He's loved anyway, It means fear of dying in something that flies, M/M, McCoy is a bit of a screw up, Starfleet Academy, uncertain future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knune/pseuds/knune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Failure</i> is a word McCoy knows very, very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't Wash the Echoes Out

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I wrote some years ago and am now getting around to archiving here. This wasn't beta'd so any and all mistakes are the result of lazy proofreading. 
> 
> I don't own Star Trek or any of its related franchises. I'm just having some fun.

*

They’re just words, groups of letters thrown together. Black and white characters on a screen so small they begin to bleed together and McCoy has to look once, twice, before it all starts to sink in.

He knew this was coming, has known for a couple of days. But it’s in his hands now. Tangible. And he can’t fix this. He can’t open the wound up, stitch the organs back together, knit the bone and stop the bleeding. The side effects will linger, the infection will fester, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

They’re not just words; they’re so much more. They’re sentences and context, regret and rejection. These words hold his future and it’s dim and crumbling. And he’s so fucked.

*

It feels like it’s some ungodly hour of the morning but the sun is up, hanging so fucking high up in the sky and shining so brightly that McCoy has to lower his head, hide his eyes behind his hand. It’s late, nowhere near early, but maybe it just feels that way because he hasn’t slept, can’t sleep, can’t close his eyes without wondering where he’s going to be next week, where he’s going to fucking sleep.

He can’t quiet his thoughts, can’t get the constant, droning mantra of _failure_ out of his mind. So he doesn’t sleep. He closes his eyes and sees the words and opens his eyes and sees nothing that matters anymore.

He’s somewhere outside of the gym, alone for now, none of the expected hustle and bustle crowding the area. Awkwardly, he stands near the door and waits. Waits with his eyes hidden and the collar of his uniform chaffing the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but he knows when the waiting is over. A hand curls around McCoy’s palm and drags it away from his eyes. “Hey,” Jim says, his fingers tight around McCoy’s. He doesn’t let go.

“Jim.” McCoy’s voice is rough, tired, but he looks Jim in the eyes (so goddamn blue, so goddamn ridiculous) and doesn’t back down, doesn’t hide. He holds his ground and takes his beating like a man. He’s used to it by now. He untangles their fingers, feels so fucking empty because he’s a dependent son of a bitch, and shoves his padd into Jim’s hands.

And Jim’s laughing, deep and rich and it lasts all of ten seconds before it stops and all that’s left is uncomfortable silence. His eyes dart back and forth, from the padd to McCoy, from McCoy to the padd. It would be funny, in another time, another life, but it’s not. “I don’t get it.”

It’s straight forward, self-explanatory and Jim isn’t an idiot, not matter how many times he ends up face down in a toilet or with blood trailing down his chin like he has permanently red tinted saliva. It just takes a second to digest the words, to put them together into neat little bundles that process.

“I failed,” McCoy says and it’s easier to say than he thought it would be. These words roll off his tongue like it’s second nature because by now, it is. These are the words that are going to be engraved in his tombstone.

It was a simulation. Piloting a shuttle, some stupid make it or break it Starfleet bullshit, and McCoy couldn’t make it through the fucking door without shaking, without his hands vibrating and his head swimming, drowning. And he tried, tried so fucking hard to overcome the fear, the stupid senseless fear that ate him alive and left him reeling. He flunked out and now Jim is staring at him, with those goddamn eyes and he wishes like fuck he had tried a little bit harder.

“No, we practiced. You were fine.” Jim’s shaking his head, his fingers flying over the padd, scrolling through the document like he’s searching for the hidden joke only to come up empty. “You were fucking fine, Bones.”

McCoy’s tongue feels so thick, the words feeling so foreign. Everything is an excuse. “I couldn’t do it.” And now he has twenty-four hours to pack his shit and get the hell out of Starfleet. He isn’t wanted and it’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last.

Jim’s head is just shaking harder now and there’s denial written all over his face, stiffness in his shoulders that won’t let him back down. “I’ll talk to Pike. He’ll fix this.”

“He signed the order, Jim.” But these are words that Jim doesn’t seem to hear. They don’t penetrate.

“No.” Jim leans in, presses a soft kiss against a cheek that hasn’t been shaved in two days. “I’ll fix this.” And then he’s gone, just a retreating form in the distance, a red clad back walking away and blurring into the background.

McCoy stands there, for just a minute or two, and tries to get used to being alone again.

*

He packs because there is no fixing this (no matter how hard Jim tries, no matter how good his intentions are) and he has no other options. He lives in a dorm like an eighteen year old, only his stash of booze is legal and more expensive. The room is the size of a sandbox, four walls of white wash claustrophobia, and he’s ten years too old for this shit.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, starting over, but nothing has changed. He’s still unwanted, still a cranky bastard (still afraid). And now he has to do it again and it’s just too fucking much. There’s nowhere to run to this time, nowhere to go. No one to turn to who will let him in. There’s no backup plan, no hidden fortune for him to survive on. He’ll figure something out. He has to.

His entire life fits neatly into two duffle bags and a small cardboard box. It takes half an hour to pack and by the time he’s done, the small room looks brand new, like he was never there. There are no reminders that a doctor, a failure, ever slept in this room, ever sat on the floor, thigh pressed against Jim’s, a bottle of liquor held tightly in his fingers. It’s just a room with a bed now and that’s all it was ever to McCoy anyway. This isn’t home and would never be.

McCoy is piling his bags by the door, balancing them on top of the box, when Jim barges in. He looks ragged, his uniform wrinkled and creased. His lips are tight, drawn into a straight, thin line and it’s not right, not on Jim’s face. This is McCoy’s fault and he’s never been good at putting together broken puzzle pieces.

“You packed,” is what Jim says but he’s looking at McCoy, not the room. His eyes are sad in a way McCoy’s never seen before and they don’t look as blue and certainly not as manic as they were earlier. He looks defeated and that’s new.

“Yeah.” McCoy stands uselessly in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with his hands. He wants to reach out, grab Jim and squeeze the fucking life out of him, burrow inside his skin and wear him like a coat so he can keep him. Instead, his hands dangle at his sides and they feel heavier than ever.

“Where are you going to go?” And there it is, a confirmation that whatever strings Jim tried to pull fell apart before he could wrap his fingers around them. He doesn’t have to say it; it just lingers in the air between them.

“Hotel. I’ll figure it out from there.”

Jim nods and then steps closer, pauses for a second or two before plastering himself to McCoy. He wraps his arms around McCoy’s neck, sticks his nose into his shoulder blade and just breathes, holding on like he’s drowning in the same sea McCoy is. Only he isn’t. Jim has a guaranteed seat in the lifeboat. “You were fine,” Jim whispers.

“Maybe I just put on a good show for you.” McCoy puts his hands on Jim’s hips and holds on. He’ll have to let go soon and that’ll be it. The end of whatever the fuck this relationship is. Love. Sex. Everything or nothing in between.

“Shit, Bones.” Jim lifts his head and there’s fire in his eyes again. It’s good to see. “I don’t care where you go. I’ll fucking find you.”

It sounds good but empty promises are empty promises. Maybe they’ll see each other for a while, if McCoy stays in the area. Then they’ll write to each other, then call once a month. Then a quick chat at Christmas and then nothing. Jim will find that everything or nothing in between with someone else and McCoy will float aimlessly until he finally finds the bottom of his whiskey bottle.

“Sure, kid. Sounds good.” McCoy may be broken, irrevocably, but he’s forever resilient. He keeps a stiff upper lip and later, when he’s by himself on some godforsaken hotel room bed that’s covered with fluids and diseases he doesn’t even want to think about, he’ll let the façade fall.

“No.” Jim’s holding him tighter now, shaking him a little. Shaking him hard, and McCoy’s trembling the way he did during his failed exam. “I fucking mean it. I don’t care where I am or where you are. We’ll make this work.”

And these are just words but there’s something more here. Maybe it’s the light in Jim’s eyes, maybe the tight grip he has on McCoy like he’s never going to let go. Maybe it’s the tremor in his voice, the determination, the way he must have fought and fought for hours to try to keep McCoy from winding up on the street. There’s something, something he can’t put his finger on, but something here that makes him stand up a little straighter, the weight on his shoulders a little lighter.

“We’ll find a way,” Jim says and these are words McCoy can believe in.

*  



End file.
